


A Life Long-Trampled

by emjam



Series: gender headcanons [6]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Friendship, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Guilt, Hanzo Shimada-centric, Hanzo joins Overwatch, Meditation, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Genji, Post-Recall, Rated For Some Descriptions of Violence, Redemption, Self-Denial, Self-Discovery, Sojiro Shimada's A+ Parenting, Trans Female Character, Trans Female Hanzo, unintentional misgendering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emjam/pseuds/emjam
Summary: Hanzo is the perfect picture of a good son, the heir to an empire.When they call him forward and explain what he has to do, the little voice that would have protested, the same one that comforted Genji after their bedtimes and secretly enjoyed cooking for his father and brother, has nothing to say.When Hanzo murders his little brother, he feels nothing.[Hanzo's transition from a barren existence to a life worth living.]





	A Life Long-Trampled

**Author's Note:**

> I would usually break this into chapters but for some reason this story works better as a particularly long oneshot (long by my standards that is). I'm trans but not AMAB, however, this story gripped me and I wanted to try to do it justice. I've been kind of nervous to publish it but I've had it done for some time and want to release it out into the world.
> 
> FYI, Hanzo is referred to with he/him pronouns until she acknowledges/accepts that she's trans. That doesn't happen until over halfway through, so if that bothers you, you might want to bounce.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3

For what it’s worth, the elders’ grooming is thorough. There isn’t a single loose thread or rebellious hair out of line on Hanzo’s person. He is the perfect picture of a good son, the heir to an empire.

And never anything else.

When they call him forward and explain what he has to do, the little voice that would have protested, the same one that comforted Genji after their bedtimes and secretly enjoyed cooking for his father and brother, has nothing to say.

When Hanzo murders his little brother, he feels nothing.

The blood runs deep between the stones that make up the path cutting through the yard. Hanzo’s skin is wound so tightly around his bones that it’s a miracle he still breathes. Genji lays there with less breath in him, though he was more alive than Hanzo mere moments ago. A bright spark gone. His little brother’s yelling and pleading is seconds past, but he remembers none of it.

Hanzo expects bile to fill his mouth, or to feel some sort of internal ache, but all he can sense is a deep, endless emptiness. Detached eyes follow his brother’s blood as it seeps into dirt.

He leaves before the blood stains the freshly-trimmed grass. Someone else can clean it up.

* * *

Disappearing probably isn’t the best option, but it’s all he has.

The bile comes a few terrible weeks after. Genji’s mutilated body keeps occupying the space behind his eyelids at night, and his hollow chest constricts. It doesn’t get better after Genji’s death; there is just even more pressure put on Hanzo now that the rebellious son is gone - no burial, no funeral, as if Genji never existed at all.

When Hanzo wakes after two hours of sleep with a pounding headache for the hundredth time, something in him springs to action. The clan trained him too well, because he slips off into the night and it takes them months to send assassins after him. They don’t want him back, just want him dead, which is unsuccessful so far.

Stripping the titles they gave him eases his breathing a little bit. It’s a shame he can’t really enjoy the fresh air.

Some things stay with him when he leaves. He’s still a trained assassin, which is a Shimada family heirloom that you can’t get rid of. He takes jobs in order to set things however right they can be with the weight of what he’s done. Employers don’t wonder who he is or where he comes from, though some have figured it out - he was an emerging head of the Shimada clan and obviously garnered some attention. Nevertheless, to his knowledge none of his employers turn his location in. It doesn’t matter, because he hops from city to country to continent anyways.

However, he can’t ever stay away from Hanamura for long. The trek back each year is worth keeping Genji’s memory alive in their old uncaring home, even if Hanzo himself cared too little and far too late. The pain is fresh each time, but can’t compare to how Genji must have felt tracking his older brother’s murderous sword in the moonlight seconds before his death. That night flashes sporadically in his dreams, viciously lucid. But they were Hanzo’s own actions. It is his burden to bear.

Everything tastes like ashes in his mouth, but suicide is not the honorable death his father would have wanted for him. The deaths that come at the draw of his bow, however, bring pride to him, even when he knows nothing else.

And then Genji himself appears in Hanamura on the same night as his death years ago, a green, electric phantom, like their lives were an odd drama. His dead brother appears inside those grisly Shimada walls and disappears nearly as quickly. That’s when the gaping cavern expanding in Hanzo’s chest finally collapses. When Genji’s new form disappears, that’s when things change.

* * *

When Genji was dead, Hanzo could drag himself forward, perform jobs, even if robotic and isolated. Now, he is barely hanging on, spending more nights motionless on the floors of unknown hotel rooms than active in his work. He sometimes wonders when Genji will come back to finish the job. Other times, he wonders when they can speak again, but his hands shake uncontrollably when he considers being the first to reach out. So he doesn’t.

Tonight the sky catches his eye from his hotel window. He gets lost in the twinkling night, the ringtone of his most recent burner phone taking a few moments to penetrate the cotton in his mind. When he answers, the blurs of light blinking down from the window refocus. With that returns the inevitable twisting of his skin around him.

It is Genji’s ghost, telling him that the time to pick a side has come. “Meet me. We have much to discuss, and I would like to talk to you under less… life-threatening conditions.”

The world is spinning by Hanzo in a haze. Every day tastes the same. A meandering, endless path stretches ahead of him, long and barren of life.

He agrees to meet Genji.

* * *

“Brother, you look well.”

Hanzo feels like some beast has been eating him from the inside, and knows that it shows. Without a reason to maintain appearances, unkemptness has fully entered Hanzo life. “You’re joking.” He says it with a deadpan that is less humorous and more posthumous. His hands shake from under the table.

Genji’s new robotic voice chuckles. “Well, I was trying to be polite.” He gestures to his brother’s untouched tea. “Drink.”

“Where is your own?”

“I cannot eat or drink very often anymore, and I had tea on the train.” It sounds matter-of-fact, like something Genji has accepted long before this moment. Hanzo’s ears merely turn pink, and he lacks an appropriate response. He sips at his tea instead, ignoring the jitter of the cup in his hands.

Genji invites him to Overwatch.

Hanzo’s still getting used to speaking for longer than a few minutes. His voice is hoarse. “Why do you think I should do this?”

“There is something more than country-hopping and mercenary work, Hanzo. I refuse to believe that that is all you are. There is hope for you yet.”

The remark makes him unduly aware of the bags beneath his eyes and his hunched posture. He suddenly feels stupid for his lethargy and listlessness. What had he become?

Genji’s shining form makes him sick to his stomach.

“I would still be killing,” Hanzo says. Opposition would once incite a fiery retort from his little brother, but now the green visor of the sleek machine he has become watches him patiently. It unsettles him.

Hanzo caused this, he reminds himself.

“Not always. And for a cause.”

That is true. It’s certainly better than scoping out every job to be sure the employer isn’t going to harm him. Maybe Overwatch will set him on the right path. Maybe he can… make amends.

A schedule. A place to stay. These are things Hanzo hasn’t had in a long while, and sorely misses.

He searches for anything that would oppose the idea in the cooling cup of tea resting in his bulky hands. An unnameable discomfort makes him look back up at Genji, which is not much better.

“Alright. I will join you.” He hesitates. “Brother.”

“You cannot tell, but I am smiling very hard right now.”

Hanzo genuinely laughs for the first time in what must be years.

It is only when they are flying to Gibraltar to join the abandoned base that Genji tells him that “brother” is wrong.

“Do you remember Eri?” Genji asks suddenly, interrupting the strained silence that prevailed after a few failures at conversation. The question is uncharacteristically hesitant - though truthfully, Hanzo doesn’t know what counts as _in character_ for Genji any more.

Hanzo’s “yes” is surprised, because he had not thought of that wild teenager for some time. They had been a friend of Genji’s for a year or two, and the only reason Hanzo knows is because Genji found great joy in stirring up trouble by bringing them over after late nights at the arcade. “What about them?”

“I am like them.”

Like them, Genji says, and Hanzo remembers how their parents found Eri’s “neitherness” confusing and agitating.

“I am… not the man father probably expected of me,” Genji continues with a laugh, “but also not a woman. I tell you this because everyone at base knows too, so do not be surprised.”

Hanzo doesn’t know Genji as much as he used to. The cyborg in front of him is practically the opposite of the excessive troublemaker from their youth. That fact makes his throat tighten at the same time that something in him finds it desperately hilarious that Hanzo is not the man his father wanted him to be, either. He betrays none of this in his response.

“Should I change my language, then?”

Genji nods and tells Hanzo to use ‘they’. “I left Blackwatch some time ago, when I was more troubled than now. I was hurting and angry for many reasons. I wandered.”

He is fine letting Genji do most of the talking. Him and Genji are too far apart now for Hanzo’s “conversing with sibling” skills - measly even back when their lives weren’t like _this_ \- to have any merit. So he listens awkwardly.

“I eventually came upon a Shimbali monastery. That is where an omnic named Zenyatta actually helped me find peace with what has happened. He is already at Gibraltar, by the way. He has helped myself and many others, and perhaps he can help you too.”

Hanzo bristles at the mention of himself. “What could I possibly need help with?”

Genji merely tilts their head at him, visor unwavering.

He looks away with a huff. “You seem to hold this omnic in high regards.”

“Well…” His brother - no, his sibling - now seems to be silent not to make a point, but simply due to awkwardness. After a moment, Hanzo recognizes this silence.

“What. No.”

Genji shrugs sheepishly. “What? He’s very kind. I like him.”

“Are you… together?”

“No. But I might want to be,” Genji admits, allowing themself to be vulnerable in front of their estranged brother for reasons Hanzo might never understand. “Don’t say anything to him. Our friendship is too valuable to be prematurely changed by my feelings.”

“Alright. I will not interfere with your… robot romance.” As soon as the joke is uttered, Hanzo feels bad, suddenly horrified by the fact that he mentioned Genji’s new form out loud - and in a joke, no less.

Genji evidently doesn’t care, as they only shove him good-naturedly. “Shut up.”

Hanzo doesn’t realize that he’s leaning into the touch until it’s already over, and he feels foolish.

* * *

The flight was long, even through less conventional channels. Hanzo stumbles onto the landing pad of Overwatch’s Gibraltar watchpoint with an intense cramp in his neck and a pain in his back. Genji, meanwhile, strolls off right as rain. They probably have some sort of synthetic spine that doesn’t hate them. A twinge of disgust-shame-dissonance momentarily invades Hanzo and makes his steps falter.

There’s a ragtag welcome party present at their arrival - a large gorilla, a woman with long, blonde hair that Hanzo cannot keep his eyes off of, a thin stick of a woman wearing some sort of metal harness around her chest, a clothed omnic, and a… cowboy.

“Jesse! I didn’t know you were here!”

There is so much joy in his sibling’s voice at the sight of this odd man. He’s tall and tan, and wearing a ridiculous getup that, assuming by everyone’s nonchalance, is par for the course.

The caricature barely has time to tip his hat before Genji easily wraps him up in a hug, one which he dutifully returns. It feels like something genuine that Hanzo has no right witnessing, and no one else seems intent on engaging with him, so he looks around, taking in the rock skyscrapers and the ocean view beyond them. It is a gorgeous place, to be sure. Voices coming from the welcome party fade away as he stares intently into the colors of the dirt beneath his feet.

“Yes, this is Hanzo,” Genji says.

The mention of his name drags him out of his head, and he looks up.

The whole party is looking at him. The blonde woman can barely conceal disgust, and neither can the cowboy. The woman with the odd cage around her torso seems a little more neutral, and who knows what the monkey and the omnic are thinking.

Seems fair.

Genji rubs his metal hands together. “Hanzo, this is Jesse. That’s Angela, she’s our main medic at the present, that’s Lena, that’s Winston, and of course, this is Zenyatta.”

“Greetings, I have heard much about you,” the omnic greets warmly, even though Hanzo suspects that none of what he’s heard has warranted warmth.

“Yeah, a ton,” the cowboy - Jess? - mutters, with a hand resting where Hanzo can only assume a weapon is concealed. One of the girls swiftly elbows him. “Damn, Lena! You’re much too bony to be doing that.”

“Well, you deserve it. He’s here to help, ain’t he?”

“Hello,” Hanzo stiffly addresses the group, and, because politeness has never steered him wrong, he bows. “I am looking forward to working with you all.” He swallows around that tightly wound feeling again. “I hope I can make a good impression.”

“Well, we’ll see how it goes!” The gorilla answers before anyone else can get a word in. It is an obvious attempt to boost the mood with forced optimism. “Come with me, I’ll give you a tour.”

* * *

The tight feeling doesn’t disappear when Hanzo is shown his grayish room, or when he awkwardly joins the dinners they have every night. Actually, he’s pretty sure it gets worse when McCree pays him a visit.

“Yes, McCree?” He had been staring into space lying on his bed again, and he hopes it doesn't show.

“Wanted to talk to ya.”

“What is it?”

McCree takes a seat at Hanzo’s desk. “Sorry to be the one to say it, but some of us don’t trust ya much.”

“I noticed.”

“Figured you would.” The cowboy fiddles with an empty photo frame resting on the desk; it was there when Hanzo arrived, and he doubts that he’ll ever have something to put in it. “I know Genji’s forgiven you ‘n all, chosen the higher road, whatever. Some of us aren’t much inclined to that.” He locks eyes with Hanzo and ceases his fiddling. “I need to know you won’t hurt Genji again.”

“You do not know what happened. It is not your business.” He does not like the feeling this conversation gives him. The cowboy is poking at uncomfortable wounds within him, history that he never expected others to be conscious of. It’s not like the family’s business was ever broadcasted to the wider world.

“Actually, I’d reckon it is, considering Genji’s my friend an’ you tore them up real bad, in case you didn’t notice.”

“I will not lay a finger on them,” Hanzo stresses.

McCree shakes his head, the adornments to his hat glittering where the light hits. “I need something more than that. How should I know that one day you won’t put that sword o’ yours in ‘em again?”

Hanzo would not do such a thing again; he could never. But perhaps this man doesn’t know that because he lacks context. It takes a moment to figure out how to give it. “At the time, the clan had full power over me. I was… weak, to have let our family influence me so. Their ideas will never control me like that again. You have my word.” His voice is quieter and more flimsy than he would like. He decides he probably should not mention that it would also be a mindless act to come _here_ to murder his sibling. _Here_ , which is crawling with friends Genji made in their new life; better friends to Genji than Hanzo ever managed to be.

 _“Weak?”_ McCree repeats. “In that moment of ‘weakness’ you good as slaughtered someone!” Suddenly the cowboy is all fire. He stands and throws his hands in the air in an explosive expression of anger. “Did you even _see_ what you did to Genji?!”

Hanzo did not.

He remembers much blood, the thrum of his dragons and a limp body. He remembers that well. But specific details are a blur. Which limbs were sliced? Where on their body was skin shredded the most? No matter how much Hanzo tries to unfog the memory, it remains in pieces.

When Hanzo walked away that night, it was more for his sake than anything else.

The silence says more than his words could. McCree catches on.

“You _didn’t?_ ”

When was the last time someone was so pure in their expression of anger? In Hanzo’s family, they let it hiss out slowly, saving it for punishment and smothering it into a deadly weapon. McCree does not do that. His words are not polished, his facial expression is not calculated. He is human, especially when he bursts, “How dare you? You - you come here without even knowing what you’ve done to them! They suffered so much ‘cause of you. What’s wrong with you?”

Something simmers within Hanzo at the look on this stranger’s face. “Get out.”

_“What?”_

“I am telling you to get out! I will not hear this from you.”

“Well, that’s quite alright with me. Sure, we’re on the same payroll, but don’t think I won’t keep an eye on you.”

The dirty look McCree gives him as he leaves makes Hanzo feel cold, and somehow worse than before.

* * *

Hanzo’s cutting up vegetables when Zenyatta approaches him.

They finally trust Hanzo to use the kitchen, once Dr. Ziegler had scrutinized everything he made the first time to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. Poisoning had never been the Shimada way, but Hanzo feels that it would be in poor taste to bring that up, even if Genji might get a morbid kick out of it.

 _Shimadas do not poison. They use the bite of their swords to destroy their kin._ The thought loops in Hanzo’s head before he can chase it away.

_What’s wrong with you?_

Chopping is almost hypnotic, one of those things he gets lost in. Better than the alternative - being left subject to his thoughts. His hand stills when sleek metal fingers land upon it, halting its progression.

“You were about to cut your finger,” comes a mechanical voice that is somehow also quite alive. Zenyatta removes his hand, and Hanzo relaxes his own grip.

Oh. He was indeed about to slice a bit of his finger off.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. If you cannot focus, perhaps this activity is not meant for you right now.”

Hanzo thinks about this and steps away from the knife, rubbing the skin atop his knuckles.

“I feel much discord within you. Is it something you wish to discuss?”

He tightens, back still to Zenyatta. Something about talking feels dangerous. It's…

It's…

“What would I possibly have to discuss with you, omnic?”

Zenyatta hums, seemingly unperturbed by the vitriol in Hanzo’s tone. “I would say you sorely need someone to talk to, my friend. But of course, it is not up to me. If you feel the need, you know where my room is.” The chiming of his metal beads follows him out.

Hanzo remains silent and brings a barely-contained hand back to the blade.

He knocks awkwardly on the omnic’s door after he eats dinner sequestered away in his room once again (two steps forward, one step back, he supposes). The door slides open to reveal the omnic in clear view, somehow appearing expectant even though his faceplate can’t change. A few candles placed on the floor next to him warm the cool tones of his wiring. He appears to have been in the middle of something, cross-legged on the floor. Hanzo will admit he knows nothing of the Shambali or their practices, something which has made him unexpectedly lose his footing here.

This doesn't seem like it will lead anywhere. He already feels the call of his room; no one is in there and he can enjoy his mental exhaustion in peace.

But he’s already here.

“I do not mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all, it is nothing I can’t resume later.” The omnic levitates off the ground in his sitting position and makes a very human gesture of wiping down his pant legs with his man-made hands. “Please, come in.”

Hanzo does, but he doesn’t know where to go, so he remains standing.

“What can I help you with, Shimada?”

Hanzo suppresses a grimace at the name. He does not know what to say, or how to describe his thoughts. Coming here at a vague offer for help and actually using his words are turning out to be wildly different things. He stands awkwardly near the doorway, suddenly feeling more out of place than usual. Why did he follow Genji to this abandoned cause in the first place? “Never mind. I will not lower myself to this.” He turns around, palm hovering over the door controls.

The clear metal tones of Zenyatta’s voice box call out from behind him.

“Are you sure?”

He stops.

Zenyatta continues. “Lowering yourself and seeking help are not the same.” He keeps the same light and steady tone throughout.

Hanzo doesn’t turn around. “How could you ‘help?’”

“It depends on your troubles, my friend.”

“I will not talk to you about my ‘troubles.’”

“Then why did you come?”

They are both silent for a moment as Zenyatta’s orbs quietly chime.

The omnic’s head shifts slightly as if in consideration, mechanisms in his neck giving off a few very soft clicks. “You do not _have_ to talk. I can try to help you without the details. It’s up to you.”

Hanzo considers this.

The next day, he takes the halls at a brisk pace on the way to Zenyatta’s room and enters quickly, half-worried that some agent will appear out of nowhere and ask him where he’s going.

“Have you ever done this before?” They are sitting across from each other on the floor, and the candles are present again. Hanzo’s impeccable form hasn’t waned with how much it was enforced, which Hanzo is secretly glad for. He would not like the embarrassment of a monk correcting his posture.

“Yes.” The silence eats his words. He feels Zenyatta wants him to say more. “It was part of my training.”

“Hm.” An interested noise that leaves Hanzo slightly confused. “The same training that Genji received, correct?”

 _Though one could hardly tell by looking at us_. Hanzo bites his tongue at the easy criticism that threatens to spill even after all these years, and decides a simple nod is safe. If he lets those words out, the guilt strengthens, and then his thoughts will run away from him, and then, and then, and then...

“Then I trust you do not need detailed instruction. We shall begin.”

Hanzo looks down at his lap, confused, but takes that as a challenge to do it correctly, as he was taught.

They both fall into silence. Even Zenyatta’s orbs do not chime; they are powered down in the corner. Hanzo is used to remaining still for long periods of time, if no longer for meditation in the gardens, then to fulfill his role as a sniper. He turns inward to center himself and focus on his breathing.

Eyes closed, he can tell that Zenyatta is watching him, but remains undisturbed. They meditate together for around ten minutes in serene silence. After that time passes, the quiet whirring of Zenyatta’s orbs as they awaken alert Hanzo. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.

Zenyatta has brought his orbs back to him, and tosses a glowing golden ball towards his meditation partner. Hanzo does not flinch as its glow washes over him, easing muscles he hadn’t known were rigid. Odd.

“You are too tense.”

“Am I?”

“It shows that you are not properly going through the exercise, and instead let your mind wander. Your meditation should not be plagued by snagging thought processes.”

“How do you know? Would emptying your mind not be easier for you as an omnic?”

To Hanzo’s surprise, Zenyatta answers in the negative. “No. I have a consciousness, the same as yours. It can collect ‘garbage,’ if you will, just as well as that of others.” A pause. “And evidently yours.”

“‘Garbage?’” Hanzo repeats.

“Imagine your mind is a pond, and you are holding a net. If you tire yourself pulling the net through the whole pond, you are going to catch everything in it - useless and useful alike. But if you focus and watch the pond before you take from it, you can have less snags in your net. In other words, you cease fixating on thoughts that do not help you. Acknowledge them, but do not try to follow all of them. It is too much.”

With that, Zenyatta stands on his feet.

It was a surprise to Hanzo that the omnic could do such a thing at all. He pushes himself up dumbly.

Zenyatta continues to use his feet to traverse the room, pinching out the candles and putting them away. It is… humanizing. “It will take time to build such control,” He says to a motionless Hanzo behind him. “Would you like to make tonight a regular event?”

“As your… student?” Hanzo cautiously asks, knowing that Genji is referred to as such.

“If you wish.” The omnic radiates patience. The subdued spinning of the harmony orb still attached to Hanzo’s person is the only sound coming from Hanzo’s direction as he thinks, so Zenyatta continues. “I would like to stress the informal nature of this agreement. There are no deadlines or expectations. You come when you wish and we work together. I do not push.” His hands meeting below where a human’s sternum would be, he faces Hanzo once more.

Hanzo takes a selfish second to bask in the refreshing glow of the bead floating beside him. He squashes down the ubiquitous pride that tries to ruin everything he touches. This could be useful, he tells himself.

They begin to meet on the regular. Hanzo has not had a mentor for a very long time, and never one as tranquil as Zenyatta, though their father had come the closest. It is somewhat odd to be under someone’s tutelage once more, but Hanzo can’t say it’s not helpful.

Blood on stone flashes in his mind. Every time he sees Genji, he feels as if he is decaying with shame and guilt. Memories loop in his thoughts. These things aren’t detailed to Zenyatta, not like that, and neither are the other deeper angers and guilts, the ones that run deep into his upbringing. But they are generally communicated, the overarching dissatisfaction and disappointment that runs rampant in his mind.

Letting go of things that have been present for so long isn’t easy. He isn’t successful.

Still.

With time and guidance, Hanzo comes to remotely appreciate the present in which he resides; the subtle clicking of Zenyatta’s wiring, the smell of the candles, the feel of the solid floor beneath him as he meditates. It is a step up from being so inside his head that old hotel floors seem like good beds to him and the ceiling is the thing he’s looked at the most within his new room here.

“Let the thoughts travel through, but do not take them with you. They are not joining you where you’re going. You merely observe them.” This particular piece of advice has actually become of use to Hanzo, and he wonders if there really is merit to the omnic’s own routines - if he has struggles of his own that he must lay to rest.

Even as Hanzo itches to ruminate on guilt and blood and deserving death, it becomes just a bit easier to silence that all, just for a moment. A bit easier to see Genji every day, and a bit easier to sleep at night. Not perfect - never perfect - but still. Easier.

Easier - and harder. Newfound self-awareness is a double-edged sword.

Despite quieting his circling thoughts, there is still something there, something that muffles him, something tight around his skin.

Perhaps he must merely keep working on it.

* * *

The clean walls of the medical wing do not inspire safety or comfort in Hanzo. The last time he allowed a medical professional to assist him, it was because his legs were blown off. So naturally he is already on edge.

It definitely has nothing to do with the woman in front of him eyeing him like he brought a bomb into her office.

“If this is not a medical emergency, I cannot help you,” she states coldly, turning away to shuffle around the contents of a desk drawer.

“It is not,” he answers truthfully.

“Then leave. Were my instructions unclear?”

“No. However -”

“I do not want to talk to you.”

Hanzo’s jaw tenses, and he sighs. “I have questions. About… my sibling.”

The doctor halts her apparently meaningless motions, dropping everything back in the drawer and shutting it with an aggressive click. She swivels around in her chair. “You cannot talk to them yourself?” Her gaze is piercing. Not many can make Hanzo uncomfortable with merely a look, but evidently this doctor has joined those small ranks.

He doesn’t back down nevertheless. “I doubt that they would appreciate if I asked them exactly what I did to them, so I think not.”

Her eyes narrow.

Hanzo feels too coarse and rough next to her, too big.

“You wish to know how bad it was?” She queries, threatening, a hard look in her eyes.

“I _need_ to know.”

 _Did you even_ see _what you did to Genji?_

No, but he was about to find out.

They look at each other for a moment, and something in Dr. Ziegler relents. She sighs.

“It took almost a year to fully stabilize them.”

A year. A year Hanzo made Genji spend trapped in a medical ward, a year Genji most likely could not do almost anything on their own.

Hanzo exhales, swallows. “Why?”

Dr. Ziegler’s mouth becomes a flat line. “Much of the time was spent determining what needed replacing. You somehow managed to mangle both legs and an arm beyond repair, so it took time to refine new limbs. And then there’s their abdomen. The right side bore the heaviest injuries, where most of the organs there were torn through. We struggled to keep Genji afloat while we generated replacements that would not be rejected.”

“They cannot eat the same,” Hanzo murmured, remembering Genji’s remark from when they convinced him to come here.

“No, they cannot. While our science was advanced, it was not enough to salvage their digestive tract. What they have now is unfortunately a less functional replacement.” She shakes her head. “What you did to Genji… I have never seen it before. A large percentage of their body is not organic because of you.”

“I know.”

“No, you do not.” Hanzo furrows his brow at this. “You were not there to see the flesh removed or the organs dumped. You do _not_ know.” She sighs and leans back in her chair, some tautness leaving her. “Though I suppose this conversation is as close as you will get.”

* * *

“Genji.”

“Hello, brother. What brings you here so early?”

The sun hasn’t broken the tranquil sky yet. Hanzo can’t find the use Genji must see in sitting outside on the ground before the morning begins. If he must be awake at this hour, it would be to get a headstart on work or practice. Genji is doing none of those things, instead sitting cross-legged and looking up at the stars before they disappear.

It feels wrong to stand over his sibling like this for what he has planned, so Hanzo kneels on the dirt next to them and does what Genji is doing; after all, there must be _some_ value in sitting on the cold Earth in the quiet if Genji does it. Once they are on the same level, Hanzo takes a deep breath, pushing back the thoughts that remind him how he once thought that Genji’s proper place was below him, pleading for forgiveness.

“Well?” Genji says.

Hanzo realizes he did not answer. He wishes he had several more minutes of neutral silence.

“I was wrong, and I am sorry.” The words are slow but steady, like a confident creek. He is not confident, however, but instead ashamed, avoiding his sibling’s mask in favor of the stretch of rocks that tumble down the steep drop ahead. “I deeply regret listening to our family instead of looking in front of me. While you have made peace with the outcome, I still despise what they made me do to you - what _I_ did to you.” Contained anger slightly shakes his words at the mention of the killing. “I will be a better brother to you.” The cool air takes his offered promise silently, and does not ask him why the title of _brother_ still scares him. “That is, if you will allow it.”

A feather-light touch on his upper arm shocks him, and before the shock wears off, it becomes a hug. One Hanzo sits in awkwardly, but still, at least on Genji’s part, a hug.

The crackle in Genji’s voice seems to be more than just the standard mechanization of their speech. “Brother, you do not know how much this means to me.” They pull away. “To be honest, I never made complete peace with how I am now. It is something I still struggle with at times. But I am not as hurt as before. I can appreciate how things ended up, even with the way they became as such. And I think you can find appreciation for your life as well, in time.”

Hanzo scoffs reflexively.

“Ah! No buts. It will take time and effort, but you will get there. I believe in you.” Genji stands, watching the sun as it begins to color the grass. Hanzo remains sitting, unable to move. “And for what it is worth, you have always been my brother.”

Hanzo is grateful that Genji walks away. Even with all this change, he would still rather Genji not see him cry.

* * *

“Hiya, Hanzo!”

Lena is… new, for Hanzo. He doesn't think he’s ever met someone as aggressively peppy in his restrictive, contained life, and her odd relationship with time makes it easy for her to sneak up on him despite his training. He likes to think he’s gotten better at hiding his surprise.

He still jumps slightly at the voice behind him, and prepares to hit another bullseye, focusing on the motion more than anything. “Hello, Miss Oxton.” The arrow whizzes away from him to spear the red center of the distanced target with extreme accuracy. He allows himself a satisfied smirk, then turns to his company.

“What’ve I been telling you, love? No need to be so formal! Just Lena is fine.” She dangles one of her pistols from one hand, the other resting at her side. “I was wondering if you didn’t mind me joining ya? Could use a bit of practice myself.”

“The range is all yours, Miss… Lena,” he corrects.

She giggles and pats him on the shoulder. “We’ll get there.”

They share the room for half an hour, taking time to subtly assess each other’s skill. As agents, drawing conclusions about others’ abilities comes to them as easily as breathing. When they silently move onto bot practice, Hanzo keeps an eye on his companion’s “keep-away” tactic as she jumps in and out of the bot’s range, firing in short bursts and leaving few vulnerable windows. He imagines she keeps the same watchful eye on him, and can’t help but feel like when he was assessed as a child, even though he is much older now and does not need to prove himself to anyone.

Not about his skills, at least.

Hanzo lets the thought wander off before it catches on him like a burr.

As he notches another arrow, Lena empties her pistols wildly at a bot that must have seen better days and then blinks back to avoid the return fire.

Without even thinking about it, Hanzo incapacitates another bot with a headshot and jests, “I suppose your kills don’t require much aim, do they?” It is only after it comes out of his mouth that he realizes he stepped far out of line, even as a joke. Genji and him poked at each other like that all the time when they would train in each other’s presence a lifetime ago, but is that how Overwatch members act around each other? He is about to take it back, but lowers his bow in cautious confusion. Lena is… laughing.

There isn’t any anger in her voice when she holds out her compact pistols and says, “Wanna try, hotshot?”

“Hmm.” He only uses guns as a last resort, being much more adept at the blade or the bow, but… what’s the harm? “Why not? My aim is strong enough to beat yours in any weapon.” He rests his bow and quiver against a structural pillar and removes the pistols from their owner, who then exits the area to avoid stray fire.

They are light in his palms, airy enough that he worries they would split apart if he dropped them from a high enough height. He turns towards a stationary bot some feet away and tentatively pulls the trigger of the left gun. Rapid-fire pulses fly from the tiny weapon with much stronger recoil than he thought; it nearly flips out of his hand with how small it is when confronted with its own force. He ends up scrambling to catch it, and is left clutching the little gun in a death-grip, terror written all over his face, hesitant to put his forefinger near the trigger of either pistol.

Lena lets out her loud, joyful laugh from the sidelines, and after a period, Hanzo slowly laughs too, and turns to her. “How do you manage both of these at once? And what in the world are they made of?”

“Those are trade secrets, I'm afraid!” The woman chirps. “I wanna see _you_ try, though!”

Initial challenge forgotten, they spend the rest of their time laughing themselves to death over Hanzo’s faltering attempts at being the legendary Tracer.

“How are you supposed to reload these?”

Lena simply swirls a finger counter-clockwise in the air and laughs when Hanzo drops the gun for the fifteenth time and looks more confused and disorganized than any elder or Shimada affiliate has probably ever seen him.

The uncertainty doesn’t fill Hanzo with shame - not completely, just a lingering, a memory.

They briefly consider the logistics of Lena wielding Hanzo’s bow, but quickly determine that it is just too large for her. “For the best, anyways. I just can’t stay still long enough to snipe!”

Hanzo leaves the range feeling much lighter than when he entered. He hasn’t allowed himself to laugh like that in years.

* * *

Their first mission - if it could be called as such with only the skeleton of an organization and the Petras Act still against them - goes well, not that Hanzo ever doubted his abilities. He is a good sniper, and sure of it. It’s comforting to know something is going right.

They fly their way back to Gibraltar. The sparse team is jovial, Lena cracking jokes from the cockpit and Winston inserting some reserved witticisms of his own. Genji chuckles from beside him, a welcome buffer between Hanzo and McCree, who has at some point in his lifetime turned “subtly glaring daggers” into an art form. When everyone else is preoccupied with a smart comment Dr. Ziegler made, Genji gently bumps shoulders with their brother.

“You were impressive, brother. Your skills have not waned a bit.”

Age-old internal preening, an old habit, greets the compliment, even as it makes Hanzo feel grimy. It’s a reminder of expectations.

There’s a dissonance, but he pushes past it by letting his eyes roam. “Thank you. You were not so bad, yourself. It looks like you have improved since…” The words die in his throat. Since. He lets the sentence lamely die too.

Genji brushes on. “A rare compliment; I will cherish it.” It isn’t malicious. Somehow Hanzo understands that, and a ghost of a smile drifts across his face. “It may come as a surprise, but yes, I do indeed practice now and then.”

Hanzo snorts. “That will make headlines.”

Their old groove is damaged, but still there. Genji laughs, and so does Hanzo, and he hopes this means that things will be alright. After their talk. After everything.

When he meditates with Zenyatta that evening, he feels once again that he has lost his grip somewhere with the changing of the tides, but he doesn't know if it’s entirely a bad thing.

* * *

This is the third target he’s split completely through this morning. He growls and readies another arrow towards an undestroyed target. The arrow flies and spears the imaginary foe dead. It leaves him just as unsatisfied as the previous bullseyes.

 _Impressive,_ memories echo, so loud that it hurts. He cannot dispel the thoughts.

The sound of feet shuffling draws him within himself.

“You know someone’s gotta pay for those, right, love? Probably Winston.”

Lena’s chirp is a mellow birdsong that breaks through Hanzo’s narrow fog. He doesn’t miss the message despite its cheerful tone, so he breathes deeply and schools his expression.

“I apologize. I will replace them if he so desires.” He turns around, bow slack at his side.

“No worries, he’s happy to, just keep it in mind, yeah?” She waves a hand dismissively.

“Hm. If you insist.” He returns to the targets, but witnesses his carnage once more, and doesn’t lift his bow. She approaches his side.

“Something wrong? Agents usually don’t wreck the training range for nothing. I was furious over a mission once and tore up some simulation equipment, got reprimanded for weeks,” she chuckles.

Hanzo gives a slight smile at the story, then returns to his flat gaze. He considers refusing like he is so used to, but Zenyatta’s voice is in his head telling him to open up, and so he lets words quietly slip out.

“It is…” Pointless. Nonsensical. “Silly,” he warns.

“Well, I'm pretty silly myself, I won't mind.” There’s humor in her voice, but he knows it’s to disarm him. Like a startled animal.

No, not disarm, encourage. Maybe not everyone is out to get him.

He looks back to the wall of shredded targets. A memory resurfaces, of his father and a slew of practice arrows and hours of tedious practice. _You must spear your target, Hanzo. Grazing will not be permanent enough._ His child self performs the actions of a murderer, and his father praises him, a large hand clapping his son on the back. Hanzo perfectly remembers the squarish business suit his father wore that day as he oversaw practice. _Impressive,_ his father says. He wants Hanzo to be like him.

It seems certain that Hanzo will eventually disappoint the clan. Which is odd, because he already did, and he is no longer a true Shimada, and the remnants of the clan are out for his blood. But even with all that, the imagined eyes of the elders bore into him.

Hanzo squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again, and grates out, “I don’t want to be…” He swipes a hand out to indicate the scene in front of them, and hates that he’s saying this as a paid killer.

Lena furrows her brow. “An archer?”

It feels like the elders are clamoring at his back, but he goes on anyway. “Destructive.” Sharp. Narrow. All edges and flatness and… and he despises his father more than ever in that moment, the lessons and suits and training and all, and the expectation that Hanzo would be the same.

It is a role Hanzo filled well. But only a role, and not willingly. And what else is Hanzo once the mask is dropped?

Even in making his own decision to come here and make amends and _do better,_ he would still feel more comfortable robotically following ingrained family code in black suits. Not comfortable, but… familiar. Now, everything is up in the air.

He resents the comfort that comes with the idea of remaining in a well-known, lifeless world.

Lena doesn’t respond they way he thinks she would. She doesn’t argue that he’s in an organization that requires forceful peacekeeping sometimes. She doesn’t remind him of his past occupations and regrets. She simply asks him, “What _do_ you want?”

He slumps. It takes an awkward silence for him to admit it. “I do not know.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder.

That night, before bed, he gets into sweats and a t-shirt and moves to sit on the wiry carpeting. While meditating with Zenyatta is useful, sometimes it is more calming to be alone. When he plants himself on the ground, he catches the reflection of his motions in the full-body mirror on the back of the door, and the way his t-shirt curves around his muscles, and his blatant eyebags, and how his facial hair harshly restructures his aging face. His father begins to look back at him.

For a moment, he wishes he had the absence of thought to fall asleep on the floor again. Because for once, he is aware of himself. Uncomfortably so.

Which part is a role? Playing the son, or playing as…

That feeling of his skin being too tight, the one he thought was from the incessant self-hatred and guilt...

He swallows it down. He unsuccessfully meditates. He goes to sleep.

* * *

He tries meditation again. And again, with Zenyatta. And once again alone. But there’s something itching under his skin. No matter how much he has refined his control over his thoughts, it is always like something needs dislodging in his chest. Something that should have at least lessened is still there. Worse, it is stronger than before.

Many hours pass sitting in meditation and thinking he finally overcomes above the feeling, until he opens his eyes and everything is off again.

Stepping out of the circular grooves of his old thoughts that kept him in his head, there is now a new problem: waking up from that cycle. The circles under his eyes somewhat fade, he begins to be present again - and that's when that _itch_ starts, like redirected pain has finally faded and the feeling of perpetually scratchy clothing remains. Less blood behind his eyelids, and now something under his skin no longer has to fight to be heard. When he meditates he becomes aware of the outside world that once slipped away from him, trees and wind and other people - and himself.

He looks in the mirror for a long time, hands and shoulders and face, trying to dislodge the thing making him look _wrong_. One afternoon, he successfully pinpoints one thing. In precise, quick motions that same day, he pushes down the panic of change and shaves off his beard.

* * *

Genji does a double take when they see him.

“Whoa, Hanzo. You look good.” There’s some inflection to their voice that Hanzo can’t parse.

“Thank you, Genji.”

And he does think he looks good. He looks… kinder. Softer. Less like his father. More like himself, somehow. And younger, which is undeniably a plus. It’s unexpectedly refreshing to do something new.

“Any reason?”

“I felt it was time for a change.” And to be honest, his face now feels more like his own; a little more like he wants, whatever that may be.

His beard was once a source of pride along with every other aspect of himself that he meticulously maintained. His father was similar - a professionally shaped and groomed beard that added to his image. Hanzo had picked up the grooming habit as well, putting great care into how he presented himself, carefully and precisely scraping errant hairs from his face, trimming the excess into a smart shape. All that care and work, gone with a quick visit to the bathroom.

Despite this, he cannot find it within him to feel any loss on his part.

It was a source of pride - but not in the act of presenting his best self to the world. It was pride in meeting the expectations of those around him.

Hanzo won’t admit it, but it’s heartwarming when Lena compliments the change next time they see each other. It feels good to have the woman’s approval, even with his staunch denial of any sort of need for it. Although, handsome is not the word he would call himself, though he is not sure what else to suggest.

* * *

Grief less darkens his eyes and guilt less frequently catches in his chest.

He begins to let his hair out of its tight ribbon, and the way it falls is a reminder of his younger years. Once combed to drape in a frame around his face, it breathes life into him somehow. Zenyatta comments that he looks less stoic, and Hanzo gives a smile that is becoming more common. He’s less curt with those around him, even engaging them in longer conversation. He smiles more when he looks in the mirror. It feels like some sort of life long-trampled has begun to tentatively sprout within him. And all the while, a fearful voice in the back of his mind whispers to return to how it all was before.

Memories come in his sleep.

 _You don’t want that, Hanzo._ The horrific dream-figure of his mother takes the fluttering garment away from him in favor of presentable and respectable attire. It fades from his sight, child’s hands stopping themselves from reaching after it.

Feelings bubble up, the repressed longing Hanzo felt when Genji got his ears pierced of _why am I not allowed to do that_ , the rambunctious expressiveness that had been barred from Hanzo being granted to the young Genji, years and years of tense skin holding it in as Hanzo was built to be the perfect successor. Nothing more, nothing less. _A perfect son._

Hanzo wakes up some nights and buries his head beneath his pillow to drown it all out. The elder’s taunts, his parents’ wishes, and the aching thought that _these changes are not enough_.

* * *

He isn't sure if this will work.

The card should be untraceable - at least, that’s what he was told. Overwatch manages to order necessities through discreet channels. Hanzo hasn't thoroughly determined how discreet, but…

But, but, but.

He drags the items slowly to the cart icon with his finger, orders, turns off the tablet, and excruciatingly curls up on his bed.

The clothes were styles he had eyed furtively on shop mannequins and the fashionable women roaming Gibraltar, the same way Dr. Ziegler’s hair enraptured him on his arrival. It’s the same feeling, he realizes, but leaves it at that. Any more and he will feel ill.

He stares at the ceiling, swimming in nothing, as the light fades from the room and darkness shrinks the four walls down to the broken-up moonbeams spilling in from the window.

* * *

The shirt could almost pass as masculine. It is a sort of neutral-cut high-neck tank top, soft and dusty pink. Hanzo puts it on, stares at himself in the mirror for a long time, rips it off, puts on the sports bra, and puts it back on. The undergarment just showing at the armholes makes him feel… good. A sort of joy he has never felt before wars with a fog in his mind.

With the hair let down and no more beard, the clothes help paint a picture Hanzo likes, so distant from the heir to the Shimada clan, the brother, the son. A body is a tool, useful and in need of maintenance, something that Hanzo has always known. But like this, Hanzo can see a person in the trained limbs, the tattoos, the metal legs. A person whose body feels more real to inhabit. He has always seen a tool in the mirror. Perhaps that wasn't normal.

 _This is you,_ the mirror says as he pushes his hair around. _It’s too large and too square, but it’s you._

Hanzo frantically takes both items off and stashes them away in the back of his closet, and wants to put them back on the second he does, and it hurts.

He tries on the clothes again and again when he’s alone, and a disgusting shame bubbles up within his gut. He was supposed to become respectable again in his quest to redeem himself, not… this.

_Tell no one._

* * *

Hiding it should be easy. All it is is a few garments. But the more he looks like this, the more it hurts not to. Getting changed into something less suspicious every time he leaves his room feels like a serpent choking his heart.

So, he leaves it less. Because who could he be like this around?

As if the team would be kind. Maybe…

No. Genji might - but that’s too big of a thought for Hanzo to bear. So many bad thoughts swim around that idea (so much anxiety he could vomit), so many that perhaps he couldn’t manage to only catch the good ones.

Zenyatta’s metaphors are catching on despite his best efforts.

Tense, small, he sits on his bed and feels disgusting but less disgusting than if he didn't wear these things, and the off-white color of the ceiling becomes more nuanced to him the more he stares at it.

* * *

He chokes himself in his traditional garb to go on a mission for a few days. The clothing brings him mixed feelings, now - it represents his accomplishments and also the role he is - was? - made to inhabit. Zenyatta is there too and gives him a questioning tilt of the head, but Hanzo just looks away. There’s stubble on his face because he ran out of shaving cream but refuses to leave his room to get more. He feels naked, and like it would be a good idea to scratch his face off.

When he comes back, he sits through the debriefing in silence and plans on going to his room to get drunk, something he used to do very often before he came here. That idea is swiftly ruined when he actually goes to his room.

Genji is waiting for him. They are sitting on his bed, and the reality of it makes Hanzo stop cold.

“Hello. I think I found something of yours.”

_“Give that back.”_

The gray sports bra sits threateningly in Genji’s hand. Hanzo wants to make a swipe at it, to curl it up in his fists until it disappears, but he feels locked in place. He is so taut right now that he might hurt something.

He should have made sure it was hidden. He shouldn’t have left it in such an obvious place. He shouldn’t have gotten it at all.

Genji raises their hands in a placating manner. “Athena, shut the door.” She does. They delicately place the bra on the bed. “Would you like to talk about it? I understand if you don’t.”

His little sibling has become so patient.

The article of clothing stares at him from the bed, and so does Genji, which might be scarier. Hanzo is sick. Horrible shame rolls over him, and in the moment he feels as if he would die right there.

It would be easier.

“You should have killed me back in Hanamura,” Hanzo spits, because the joy of feeling right in his skin is miniscule in comparison to the continuous crawling fear, the nice neat lines made for him that he can’t seem to follow, the screaming of his old family in his ears that has only gotten louder in recent weeks. The words are jagged and raw, but better than actually answering, and a feeling that has been chasing him for so, so long.

An empathic “Hanzo, _no”_ emits from Genji. They stand and approach Hanzo, placing both hands on his shoulders. Hanzo shudders from the contact of another person, closing his eyes. “There is no problem. I am not angry at you. I actually was not even sure it was yours, but now…” Genji shakes their head. “Regardless, I know of a few people who do not wish you dead, and I am one of them. Come sit. Please.”

They guide him to the mattress and despite the inherent humiliation in it, Hanzo is grateful that he is not expected to stand for this conversation. The plummeting roar in his ears is slightly quieter, but he still sits down next to Genji with great unease. His body still thinks he is falling to his death. “Why were you in here,” Hanzo grinds out. He swallows and stares at nothing on the ground. The words are like pulling teeth, and he tightly closes his eyes and focuses on the sick, weightless feeling churning in his gut.

“I was worried about you.” Hanzo tries to hide the hitch in his breath. “We haven’t seen much of you lately. Lena misses you in the range, you know.” Genji pauses. “Is this why you have been hiding away? ...The clothing _is_ yours, correct?”

 _Don't talk about it they’ll think you’re disgusting don’t let them know -_ Hanzo ignores the running mental commentary and nods, eyes squeezed shut. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Okay.” The word is careful. “Do you want to be called something different?” Hanzo merely clenches his jaw in an attempt at self-control. His hands shake, and he scratches aggressively at his stubble. Genji continues. “Like ‘she’?”

The one thing Hanzo carefully avoided. Using words makes it real. Hanzo doesn’t want it to be real. Despite all the reading and thinking Hanzo had done, in secret and ashamed, it wasn’t supposed to be _real_. Genji just destroyed all that.

Hanzo begins to cry. The tears are silent. It seems Genji must see Hanzo cry after all.

“You are horrible. I preferred just ignoring it,” is what Hanzo eventually mutters - it’s too difficult to simply say ‘yes’.

Genji understands. “Sister.” Hanzo’s heart sings and she hates it. _She._ “There is nothing wrong with this. If this feels right to you, I support you.” They put a grounding hand on Hanzo’s back.

“You are cold,” Hanzo mumbles in-between tears.

Genji laughs softly, and begins to remove their palm. “Sorry, I can -”

“No… it is fine.” Hanzo sniffs and grips the edge of the bed tight in residual anxiety. The acute sick feeling departs, but still leaves behind an uneasy tightness. “I do not know… what I will do.”

“You do not have to do anything, really, until you are ready.”

Hanzo thinks of the itch of her skin, the items of clothing bought in secret, all the roles _the perfect son_ was made to play, the blurriness within her that cleared up so well when Genji said that word. _She_. It is painful to see otherwise. Something may have to be done soon regardless of any sort of readiness.

“Genji, thank you. I… apologize for worrying you.”

“It’s alright. Just remember that we are your friends here.”

Hanzo gives them a capital-L Look.

“Well, Lena and Zen and I are your friends. I know we were taught to bottle things up. _Don’t_. We _will_ listen to you.”

Genji’s words are almost too much to handle; they offer so much support despite the fact that Genji owes Hanzo nothing of the sort. Hanzo does not know what to say, so she says what she can. “Again… thank you.”

“She” sounds right. It sounds _good_.

Ingrained shame begins to peel away from around her bones.

* * *

There is no one else in the range for the moment. Hanzo is thankful.

The vast space causes her steps to echo as her prosthetics tap on the floor. She runs one hand across her clean-shaven face. There is nothing to inherently worry about. She is safe and in no physical danger. And even if she were, she had her bow on her, and ammunition.

Sleek white platforms and disabled bots surround her, as silent as ever. Smells… there is not much of a smell here, but for a faint hint of dustiness that might not have been present when the base was in more active use. The fabric of her sweatpants is soft beneath her fingers, the weight of the bow is familiar on her back. And the room itself… completely silent.

Counting senses. Do not dwell. Do not.

She inhales deeply and does some stretches, focusing on the feeling of muscle extending while she waits.

“Hey, Hanzo!”

The cheer settles Hanzo’s stomach, even if only slightly. She stands once more and pulls out her bow, smiling at the new person in the room. “Hello, Lena.”

“It’s so nice to see you again! I was getting worried for a moment,” Lena confesses as she examines her pistols. “I suppose we all get a little busy, huh?”

Hanzo is a coward. Her throat closes before she can explain her absence. She merely nods, and they begin practice.

The two settle on a six-bot simulated scenario, aiming to take out all six high-level bots together without getting hit. “It’s been a while, why not kick it up a notch or two?” Lena says, setting up the bots with a smile. Once everything is ready, the simulation takes some time due to the high-quality teamwork aspect of the bots’ AIs. Hanzo typically dislikes stalling, but here she is selfish and takes joy in the drawn-out process; whatever lets her take longer to speak to Lena. Her archery has become less angrily reckless and more methodical. Like it used to be, like it should be.

They are quiet save for the sounds of fighting and the curt directives to each other. When the mock battle is over, they are both sweaty and tired.

“Thank you for your time, Lena. You did well.”

“No problem! I had lots of fun. And you did a good job too.” She looks over her pistols once more, prepping to put them away.

“And, ah, I wanted to explain myself.”

“Oh?” Lena looks back at Hanzo. “For what?”

And despite the attempts to mentally prepare, Hanzo struggles to get words out. “I have been… distant, lately.” She uses Genji’s words because she can’t describe her behavior herself. It had been too familiar to Hanzo for her to think anyone would notice, but apparently Genji did, and they weren’t the only one. The looks Zenyatta had somehow given her resurface in her memory, and she inwardly winces. “And this is because…”

Her throat closes again.

Hanzo examines Lena’s open expression. She doesn't look like she’s ready to judge Hanzo. She just looks… interested.

“You can tell me, love. I don't bite.”

Hanzo nods. “I suppose you don’t.” She heaves a sigh. “Genji helped me confront something that I realized was making me avoid the team. It is very personal, and I ask that you do not share it with the others until… until I am ready.” She looks down at her bow and forces herself not to fidget with it. _It’s not shameful_ , Genji had told her, and she holds onto that. Even now, she’s trying to delay this. No longer. “I… I am a woman.”

It’s out. Lena knows now. Hanzo was avoiding it before, but now she can’t take her eyes away from Lena’s face.

Lena’s eyes widen, and then she brings her hands to Hanzo’s shoulders. “Oh, Hanzo, that’s great! I mean, not the isolating part, but that you figured this out and trusted me with it.” She draws back. “Sorry! Are you alright with a hug?”

Every part of Hanzo instinctively yells _no_ , but to be honest, she is tired of listening to herself. Her instincts are awful. So she opens her arms with an awkward unpracticed smile, and Lena embraces her.

Lena gives great hugs.

* * *

Angela’s expression is carefully professional, a sort of guarded faux-politeness.

“Well, yes, I do treat all sort of ailments our agents fall under, and I must, since I am the only properly-trained medical staff present for now.”

Hanzo nods. “And you are fully confidential, correct?”

“If what I learn doesn’t put another agent in danger, then yes.” She places her mug down at her office desk and swivels in her chair to face her unexpected visitor. “What is the reason for this questioning, Hanzo?”

Hanzo crosses her arms. “I want to know if you are able to assist me in beginning hormone replacement therapy.” She’s hoarse, the words whispered secretively. They scratch against her self-preservation.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Hanzo catches a flicker of surprise on her face, swiftly shut down. “Well, I don’t have everything readily available right now, but I can send you an informative packet to tell you the effects and risks.” She rolls in her chair over to her tablet and begins to search through its files. “If you are still positive about this after you look at that, then we can move forward with blood tests and a discussion of your treatment. In that case, I will have everything shipped in as discreetly as possible.”

A ping emits from Hanzo’s sweatpants pocket, and she pulls it out to see a notification with a text attachment. “Thank you, Dr. Ziegler.”

“Of course. And rest assured, I will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”

* * *

“Wow, Hanzo, this is actually pretty good.”

A compliment from McCree was not something she thought she would ever get, to be honest. A beat passes without being sure what to say. “Thank you,” she tentatively responds, and pushes around the food on her plate. She had put together the only comprehensible meal possible with how empty their stocks were - someone needs to do some shopping soon. The rice-veggie-fish stir-fry sort of thing that was produced does not seem all that cohesive to her, but apparently the agents enjoy it well enough.

“Yeah, Hanzo, are there seconds?” Lena adds, already clearing her own plate at an alarming rate.

_“Are there seconds?” A 10-year old Genji asks. Hanzo points to the pan still sitting on the stove._

_“Yes, but let me get it for you.”_

_Too late. Genji’s already running to the oven._

_“Hey!” Hanzo shouts, but runs after Genji with a small smile._

Hanzo blinks. “There should be.”

Lena is already finished her meal. “Thanks, love!” She gets up and blinks out of the dining room into the kitchen.

While Hanzo’s still looking in the direction that Lena popped towards, Genji nudges her from their spot next to her.

“This was amazing, Hanzo. You should cook more often. To be honest, it reminds me of home.”

Hanzo’s heart constricts. Genji can only eat very sparingly; it was kind of them to choose this for their rare meal. She hopes it is a good reminder and not a bad one. “It does that for me too.”

She looks around at the others enjoying their food. McCree notices and gives her a begrudging thumbs up.

Maybe she _should_ do this more often.

* * *

The new addition to the team is extremely loud.

“Lena! It’s been too long!” The man absolutely booms, and his muscular arms wrap Lena up in a soul-crushing hug. Hanzo worries for her friend’s health. She raises an eyebrow at the interaction - Lena is laughing joyfully and doesn’t seem to be harmed - and turns back around in her seat to move a rook on the chess board in front of her.

Zenyatta watches the move and hums from across from her. He then takes her rook with his knight. Hanzo lets out a near-silent puff of air. That just threw her plans out the window.

“Are you worried?” Her rival’s mechanical voice chimes.

She makes eye contact with Zenyatta’s faceplate and keeps her tone carefully neutral. “Of course not.”

A moment passes before Zenyatta breaks the motionless contact with a tilt of a head and a simple, “your poker face is not as strong as you think.”

Hanzo huffs, and Zenyatta gives that odd chuckle that Hanzo never thought she would hear from an omnic. She does not know what she really expected based off of her limited omnic experience, but Zenyatta is constantly breaking what little expectations were there.

“I have noticed a change in you, Hanzo.” Zenyatta says, and Hanzo freezes. “I was hoping to ask -”

“Hanzo!”

At Lena’s call, she turns away from the game, heart thundering in her chest. Lena is standing there with the new man whose name escapes her.

“This is Reinhardt Wilhelm. We all call him Reinhardt. Say hello!”

Ah yes, she remembers now. Reinhardt. He had been greeted with love and respect by everyone when he first arrived that morning with a shorter woman in tow. The only person that didn’t greet him was Lena, and that was because she was off on a solo errand till noon. The sight of such a warm welcome had hurt Hanzo’s chest in a selfish way, and she rudely hadn’t stuck around for introductions. But, she reminds herself, she is on her way to camaraderie, even if the process is long and awkward.

She stands and dips into an appropriate bow. “Nice to meet you.”

As Reinhardt launches into a heartfelt greeting, she can feel Zenyatta watching her.

* * *

Everything becomes even harder to hide.

She visits Dr. Ziegler after giving the digital pamphlet a careful perusing. Then they discuss what she wants from treatment. Then they begin treatment, and Hanzo goes back to her room with the pills and sits on her floor with one of her female-cut shirts half-on, trying to contain her panicked breathing as it feels like her chest is being slowly crushed. It started as an attempt to make her feel better, but the clothing just made it worse somehow.

_This is real. You will look different. It will be obvious._

One shaking hand clutches the prescription. The other fists in the soft cotton fabric twisted around her torso.

She wrests her breathing from its uneven rhythm and slowly stands. The bottle clunks into a desk drawer. She pulls the shirt off, puts on a basic gray tee, and stumbles down the darkened halls. When had it become dark? She must have spent a long time on the ground.

Genji’s door eventually approaches her. It feels like a tall white monolith with the capabilities to pick her apart.

She stares at it numbly for a moment, then raises a weary hand to let out a separated series of knocks.

There’s a few light sounds from within, then the door slides open. Genji is there, sans faceplate. “Hanzo? What are you doing here?”

Hanzo’s throat is so tight. “Hello, sibling. Can I come in?” She ekes out.

“Of course.” And it is the unwavering certainty, the welcoming affirmation, that rips Hanzo’s heart in half. She doesn’t deserve such a patient sibling.

The door shuts again behind her. She stands there listlessly, fists rigid at her sides.

“What is wrong?” Genji questions.

“I… started hormones today.”

“That’s great, sister. I am proud of you. What’s the catch?” Because of course Genji knows there’s a catch. She wouldn’t have showed up in the middle of the night to announce such a thing.

The catch is - now people have to know. Now it won’t be terribly long before everything becomes noticeable. How will she tell the people that don’t know? Will she be here anymore? Will she be ostracized?

Why can’t she change without telling a single soul?

Vulnerability is new to her. Every honest conversation she has with someone on this base is like talking for the first time. It is unfamiliar and part of her absolutely hates it.

This is the most unfamiliar thing of all. The most public. The most vulnerable.

Tears begin to spill quietly down her cheeks despite her best efforts at becoming stone. She looks away and doesn’t move. It feels like something is clawing at her insides. She grinds out a few lost words that would have never left her mouth a few months ago.

“I am scared.”

Genji reaches out and pulls her to them.

* * *

“We should throw, say, an ‘I’m a girl’ party.”

“You know I appreciate your input and support, but that sounds… stupid.”

“No, hear me out!” Genji insists from where they toss a pachimari plush up and down on their bed. “You said you didn’t want to wait until people start asking questions. This way, everyone knows at once.”

“Hm. That’s true.” She crosses her arms and leans back in Genji’s desk chair, running her gaze over the menagerie of photos displayed on her sibling’s desk. There isn’t much else to do - now that she’s on hormones, changes will become visible eventually. She has to tell them even if it hurts. Lena, Dr. Ziegler, and Genji are out of the way so there’s only everyone else left - Winston, Reinhardt, Zenyatta, Brigitte, and McCree - but that doesn’t make the idea any easier.

She sighs. “Maybe I should just text everyone.” There’s a group chat rarely utilized. Mission notifications come through separately, and there’s not many occasions where everyone needs to see a message, so it’s mostly used in case someone new arrives or there’s a change in food plans.

“Ah! I mourn the chance to host a party, but that works. It gets the message out without the confrontation you hate so much.”

“I do not _hate_ confrontation.”

“I’ll believe that when you don’t prepare to run the second Jesse says anything to you.”

Hanzo rolls her eyes.

* * *

The comm screen illuminates her face in the darkness. She swallows around a familiar tightness in her throat.

_What if they see that you are disgusting, what if you must leave, will you go back to hotel rooms and staring at nothing -_

She growls, rubbing at her tired eyes. Apparently even months of Zenyatta’s help and Genji’s unwavering support cannot completely combat the remnants of those feelings. She steadies trembling fingers over the keys, methodically tapping out a factual message informing the team of her gender and pronouns and assuring them of the reason for the change. The message finished, she reads over it once, twice, ten times. After ten minutes, she concedes that she should just send it and go to bed. The alarm clock glows a disappointing three AM - she spent too long worried about this.

Her thumb scrapes the send button and it’s off into the ether. She cannot take it back. It’s out there now.

Immediately powering down the device, she gently places it face-down on the nightstand and twists away from it, pulling her blanket all round her in a cocoon. It feels like she itches all over. She eventually hugs her knees to her chest and looks at a corner of the room until she falls into restless sleep around four in the morning.

* * *

_Tap. tap._

Hanzo groans. Sunlight shocks her when she opens her eyes. She rolls over to check the time: 11 AM. An ingrained discipline starts at this. She hasn’t slept past six in a long, long time, even though her quality of sleep in general has been improving.

The sound comes again at her door.

She drags herself up, shuffles to the door, and calls to the person on the other side. “Yes?”

“Hanzo?”

It’s Winston. They haven’t spoken to each other much beyond his tour of the Watchpoint and the occasional weapon upgrades he comes up with.

Silencing the static in her brain, Hanzo holds a palm over the panel next to the door. It opens. Winston is shuffling awkwardly at the doorway.

“Hello. We all wondered where you were at breakfast.” That doesn’t seem like what he means to say first based on his expression. Hanzo rubs the remains of sleep out of her eyes.

“I apologize. I slept in for unusually long.”

“Oh! Well, that explains that. McCree’s making lunch right now, and it’ll be ready soon, if you want to join us…?”

“Of course. I will get dressed.”

“Alright, see you there.”

Hanzo’s hand goes to work the door panel again when Winston’s voice stops her. “And, well, for the record, you are an exceptional agent. Comfort for my colleagues is my top priority, and however things were in the past, my version of Overwatch welcomes all willing soldiers into its ranks. So, uh, if you have a problem, come to me. I’ll handle it.”

It’s not like the issue had been stated outright, but Hanzo can read between the lines, and what she sees is unexpectedly touching. Some sort of relief washes over her. Logically, there is no precedent for discrimination on base, especially with Genji being publically out, but it’s hard to fight instinctual fear.

She gives the best thanks she can give after just waking up, and when Winston leaves she goes over to her closet. A pair of jeans and a t-shirt find their way into her hands on reflex, but then she realizes she can satisfy that yearning now, not in small furtive bursts, but all the time. Everyone knows now. Her stomach lurches momentarily at the thought, but it is a fact now. So she keeps the jeans but also puts on a sports bra and the first shirt she ever bought, the pink one. The action is just affirming enough to push her out of her room without giving in to her doubts.

The dining hall is just filling up when she gets there. Lena immediately pops over, practically vibrating, and smothers her with a hug. Grateful, she hugs back, and they pull apart.

“I’m so proud of you! And that color looks great on you, love.”

“Thank you.” She can’t resist a small smile. They both sit down next to Genji, who gives Hanzo an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Reinhardt amicably slaps her shoulder when he passes by on the way to sit down, and she jolts forward in her seat half from shock and half from the sheer force of it. “Hello, Hanzo!” he greets, and says nothing else as he rounds the table to his seat, Brigitte following him.

McCree comes in and begins to set down plates. When he gets to Hanzo, he puts the food in front of her with a drawled “Miss.” She is speechless, validation warming her face. It is not what she would have expected from his constant coldness.

McCree is a strange man.

They dig in. Angela is stifling a chuckle from someone else’s joke, which reminds Reinhardt of a tale from his youth, and eventually he is climbing onto the table to properly tell the story, and Hanzo is laughing quietly along with everyone else’s rambunctious laughter. The world didn’t end, Hanzo didn’t die, and things move on.

Her bones don’t feel tied down. She feels… open.

After lunch, she visits Zenyatta at his room for the first time since she had tried to hide away. She never had a meeting with Zenyatta after figuring it all out; she wasn’t ready to offer an explanation. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she was avoiding being around Zenyatta alone for that reason. But now there’s no reason for that.

The room’s familiarity catches her off-guard after the time spent away, the chiming of Zenyatta’s orbs in the silence having a surprisingly strong calming effect.

“Is it safe to assume that your message was what your hiding was about?” There’s a teasing lilt to Zenyatta’s voice that reassures Hanzo’s worries.

She sits down across from him on the floor, unsurprised that he had noticed her avoidance. “Yes. I apologize for running.”

“No need. It is difficult to process such strong emotions. Though next time you have trouble, remember that you have friends here that are willing to help you.”

Hanzo’s mouth quirks up. “Funny. That’s what Genji said.”

“And it is true.” Zenyatta plucks an orb from the ring encircling him, turning it in his hand and examining it. “You know, omnics have a concept of gender as well.”

“Is that so?”

He nods, levitating the orb and watching it turn. “It does not matter what our handlers or makers have called us, or how we are built. An omnic’s internal self-perception is what is used to determine gender. I was once an ‘it,’ and I have brothers that were originally called sisters, and vice versa. Self-perception is the most important element.” The orb is slowly returned to its siblings around his neck. “I congratulate you on embracing your true self,” he says with a dip of his head. “It is not a simple task.”

There is an unexpected surge of warmth in her words when she thanks him.

* * *

Some months have passed.

It has been a long day.

Her tired legs bring her to a kneeling position on the ground, where she carefully lowers her bow into its case and shuts it. Getting up, she passes by her desk to get pajamas. On the surface rests a few framed pictures: Lena and Hanzo in the foreground in an arcade with Genji about ready to attack a claw machine in the background; Genji capturing an embarrassing face on Hanzo as she runs from the camera; and then one of the whole team after a successful mission. In that photo she stands near the center with a genuine smile and new clothing - she’s had to alter her missionwear now that she is on hormones. One arm is slung around her sibling.

After getting changed, she collapses into bed and drifts off almost immediately. There are no more hours of painful limbo where all she can do is stare at a wall and beg for sleep to come, no more feeling that her very skin is trying to suffocate her.

As she abandons conscious thought, Hanzo feels complete.


End file.
